Dugan's Home for Veterans
by Blinktwice91
Summary: Following her grandfather's death, Dani Dugan took over the group home for homeless veterans he opened after the war. When a lost soldier walked through the door, she is determined to help him remember his old life.
1. Chapter 1

"Another one, Chuck?"

"Thanks, kid."

I placed mug of cold beer before the Vietnam veteran as he turned back to his friend.

The VFW was quiet tonight. It had been quiet since the incident on the highway two days ago. City hall claims it was a police exercise; I wasn't so sure. My regulars still came, seated in their usual spots, just like every Monday & Thursday night.

I started to stack clean beer mugs when the door opened and a new face walked in. He sat at the bar, a few seats down from Chuck and his friend. Dark, shaggy hair fell across his face, which was covered in stubble, barely visible under the baseball cap that was pulled low. I approached, leaning forward, my forearms against the bar.

"What can I get you?"

"Beer...please."

The bags under his eyes only made his piercing blue eyes shoot right through me. He was young, too young to look so broken. I filled up a mug then place it before him. He nodded curtly, muttering a 'thanks.' I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He held the mug with a gloved hand, and just stared at the bar, occasionally taking a sip of beer. Lots of men wandered in here and sat in silence, but he seemed different.

The VFW closed at midnight. Some of the men try to bribe me to keep it open just one more hour. I reminded them bribes didn't work and we opened at 11:00 AM. What they did in between that time and now was their business. The young man in the baseball cap was the last one to linger. He had paid an hour ago, but did not get up to leave.

"Are you ok to get home?"

"Um, I don't-"

"Come with me."

He looked at me, perplexed. I motioned him around the bar and out the back door. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets as I locked up, then headed down the road.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"You're a veteran, right?"

"Um, I-."

I stopped in front of the group home. It was a one level building, with a manicured lawn and parking lot to the side. I ushered him inside to the lobby, where a portrait of my grandfather, Thomas Dugan, greeted us. To the right was our office, where John, the night manager, was reading a book. I leaned in the window.

"Hey John, is room 14 still available?"

He nodded, booking marking his page and standing to head into the closet. He pulled out two clean towels, a box of bar soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. He placed the key on top of the pile.

"Just put fresh sheets on the bed."

He eyed the young man before returning to his book, who was staring at the picture of Grandpa. I motioned for him to follow me down the hall to room 14. It's previous occupant, Larry, had just accepted a job as a security guard and moved in with his girlfriend.

"You're welcome here at long as you need," I said, opening the door.

He peered inside. There was a twin bed, dresser, desk, lamp and small closet. His window looked out into the courtyard.

"It's not much…"

"But…"

He just stood there, perplexed. I handed him the stack of toiletries.

"My name is Dani. The night manager giving you a dirty look is John. I'll be back the morning, breakfast is at 7. See you then."

I turned to leave, hoping he would just walk into the room and make himself at home. I stopped by the front desk before heading home; John was hanging half out the reception window, watching our interaction.

"Is your book not interesting enough?"

"You know I don't like it when you walk in here with strange men at all hours of the night."

I rolled my eyes, "He needed a place to stay. Isn't that the business we're in?"

"I suppose, but you are too trusting Dani. He looked like the freaking unabomber."

All I could do at this point of the night was roll my eyes. John meant well, and since Grandpa died, he had been a little more protective. Bringing in strange men from the streets wasn't the brightest idea, but he needed a bed.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't sleep much.

Between my shifts at the VFW and managing the group home, there is not much time for sleep. I am usually at the grocery store, in the kitchen, or fixing something around the house. My grandpa never wanted any of the residents to have to help maintain the house; they already gave to our country. He opened the group home in the '50s. A few men from his regiment occupied the rooms at first, and as time went on, more veterans from various wars came through the doors. Most of them didn't stay longer than a year, but there wasn't an empty bed for long.

"It's a damn shame this country lets their veterans sleep on the streets," he would say, shaking his head.

The group home was the only world I knew. I was scrambling eggs at 6 AM before I was a teenager. Grandpa taught me how to fix a breaker before I learned how to drive. The stories I learned from these men and women surpassed anything I was going to learn in school. They taught me how to throw a left hook that would certainly take out a grown man, or how to reload a gun in less than a minute. You know, valuable skills every girl should have.

I did make sure I had "me time." It involved waking up at 5 AM, but you have to make it work when you can.

After my run, I came straight to the group home to help John with breakfast. Before heading into the kitchen, I stopped at the donation closet to check if we had any clothes for our new resident. I pulled out a couple items, then headed into the kitchen.

John was standing by the counter, monitoring pancakes on the griddle.

"Morning," I said, heading for the coffee machine.

"Mmm-hmm," He nodded in response. John was a man of few words since September 11th. He was in the National Guard at the time, his partner was an NYFD First Responder. John made it out, his partner unfortunately, did not. He came to the group home shortly after and stayed for about a year before Grandpa asked him to stay and manage at night.

"Is the new guy still here?"

"As far as I know," he said, eyeing the pile of clothes in my hand.

I leaned up against the counter, sipping coffee. A few of the residents trickled in to get some breakfast. Some lingered to talk, some headed right back to their room. I was in the middle of the dishes when he walked in, wearing the same clothes from last night, without the baseball cap. I did notice that at some point, he had taken advantage of the shower.

"Good morning," I said, a little too cheerfully.

He seemed surprised to be addressed, but nodded in response.

"Coffee is over there. Help yourself to some food."

He walked over the coffee machine and helped himself, taking a long drag from the cup. He signed contently, then picked up a plate and put a few pancakes on top. He sat the counter and ate his breakfast as if it was the first meal he had a long time.

"Did you sleep ok?"

He nodded, "Yes, thank you."

I finished the dishes as he finished his meal. He stayed at the counter, watching me put the dishes away. I didn't mind the audience.

"So, are you new to town?"

"Yes...I mean, I think so. Everything is a little cloudy right now."

"That happens."

He nodded in response.

"My name is James…I think."

I topped off his coffee before placing the carafe in the sink.

"Nice to meet you, James."

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the half eaten piece of toast.

"I appreciate everything, but maybe I should…"

"Look, I understand if you need to keep moving, but you're welcome to stay here."

He contemplated this thought, "I guess I could...for a couple days, to get my mind right."

I smiled, "Wonderful. Here-" I slid the stack of clothes over to him. "Figured you could use these."

"Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

Grandpa didn't care for being recognized, so much so that he stopped wearing the signature bowler hat. Since his (several) strokes and being confined to a wheelchair, he didn't venture out much anyway. I would take him to the group home in the morning, he would sit in the office and watch the day go by.

When we received the invitation for the opening of the Captain America Exhibit, I knew it wasn't going to be an easy sell.

"You deserve this Grandpa, for all you did during the war."

"I know what I did, Danielle. Besides, they're all dead, 'cept Roger, and I know he sure as hell won't be here."

Grandpa knew he wasn't going to win. John accompanied us, pushing him through the crowd. A couple people ran up to him to shake his hand, some saluted him. If he could sink into the floor through his wheelchair, he would have. He sat quietly through the speeches given by the Vice President, a 6th grader who won an essay contest, a choir singing a melody of patriotic songs. I nudged him a couple times to ensure he was awake. He only grunted in response. Once the crowd dispersed, Grandpa requested to be alone for a bit. He studied the section dedicated to the Commandos, where mannequins dressed with replicas of their uniforms stood before a solemn painting of the group.

"Can you imagine life back then?" John asked, a replica of Captain America's motorcycle.

I was standing at a large glass memorial, a soldiers face sketched on it, as black and white footage of the soldier and Captain America played next to it.

_A Fallen Comrade_

"Damn shame what happened to Jimmy. Sick German bastards tortured him."

Grandpa had rolled himself next to me, staring at the memorial. His blue eyes were glassy and cheeks red. This was the first time I'd noticed how delicate he'd become.

"What happened?"

"We were on a mission to take down a Hydra base. Poor kid fell off a moving train. We didn't even have a body to bury."

Grandpa sighed, reaching up to squeeze my hand.

"Take me home, please."


	4. Chapter 4

A couple of days turned into a couple of weeks for James. He kept to himself and stayed in his room most of the day, occasionally coming to meals and always covered from head to toe. He didn't make eye contact with anyone who approached him, his baseball hat often pulled low. He would nod at me in passing or mumble a "thank you" when he accepted a plate for dinner. All had been quiet, then all hell broke loose.

I had come in from my morning run when I found that James had come out of his room and had John pushed up against the wall, fist raised, a fiery look in his eyes.

"Whoa! James!"

I slowly approached the scene, not wanting to further provoke whatever episode was happening. James looked over at me, then back at John, then back at me. He shook his head, slowly placing John back on his feet.

"I'm sorry, I didn't…"'

"It's ok, you didn't hurt him, right?"

John shook his head, trying to regain the color back in his face. James took a couple deep breaths, running his hands through his hair.

"Do you want to talk?"

James shook his head at first, then second guessed his decision. We walked out to the court yard where he could get some air.

"So, do you want to tell me why you almost threw John across the room?"

"I don't remember. I have these blackouts...sometimes I wake up in a different place, sometimes I wake up with someone's throat in my hands."

"Maybe you need something to focus on, instead of being cooped up in your room all day. Would you like to help me in the garden? Apparently, I've been neglecting it," I motioned to the weeds surrounding the rose bushes.

He thought for a moment, cocking his head, "You're not mad?"

"Of course not."

James looked around the courtyard, "Being outside would be nice."

"Great!"

I went to check on John as James gathered some items from the shed. He was getting himself together to head home for the day.

"Are you ok?"

"Not the first time some punk kid has gotten in my face." John zipped up his backpack and placed it on his shoulder. "Be careful around that one, Dani."

With that, he was gone.

I grabbed the portable speaker from the office and headed back to the courtyard. James had already begun to weed the flower beds. I set up the speaker and pressed play.

_Well, I heard some people talkin' just the other day, a__nd they said you were gonna put me on a shelf_

I lost my attention in the work for a while, made a grocery list in my head, reminding myself that the light in the hall closet still needed to be change. When I pulled myself back to get water, I noticed that James just sitting there, staring at the speaker.

_Don't sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me…_

"Sorry, that must be my grandpas playlist," I said, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead.

"I know this song," he said incredulously, eyes wide. "The Andrew's Sisters. I had no idea what kind of music that was earlier, but this one...I know."

"Not even the Beatles?"

"The what?"

I thought he was pulling my leg, but the look of pure confusion had me convinced he had no idea what I was talking about.


	5. Chapter 5

A couple weeks had passed. Following the incident in the court yard, I gave James a journal, so he could focus his energy on writing rather than the blacks outs he had mentioned. I also gave him an old iPod, full of music that was from more recent eras.

James was sitting in the kitchen one afternoon, flipping through the newspaper, when I walked in the make lunch.

"Don't mind me."

I pulled the loaf of bread and various lunch meats from the fridge and began assembling sandwiches. I could feel his eyes on me as I slathered mustard on the bread.

"Want one?"

He nodded, standing to come over to the island. I handed him a ham sandwich; he took a bite. He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully, "Can I tell you something?"

"Um, sure."

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

I shook my head, "Aliens fell from the sky and attacked New York two years ago. Nothing surprises me anymore."

He pulled the journal from his back pocket and placed it in the counter, along with a pamphlet from the Captain America exhibit. He opened it and pointed to the picture of the James Barnes Memorial.

"I think...I'm him."

His face was so serious, eyes sad and dark.

"But, he died over 70 years ago."

"What if he didn't."

The resemblance _was _striking. I looked from the black and white picture to his face. He was so convinced that this 70-some year old World War II soldier was him, I didn't want to try and convince him otherwise.

"Maybe. I mean, everyone thought Captain America was dead."

"I've been having these flashbacks. I write them all down," he flipped through the journal, revealing pages and pages of notes.

"Wow."

"I've been trying to process all these memories; I don't know which ones are real and which aren't." He paused, looking up to meet my gaze. "Like, why my arm looks like this…" He pulled off the glove and rolled up his sleeve, relieving a metal arm. His wardrobe choice made a little more sense now. "Or, that portrait in the lobby, he looks so familiar."

"That's my grandpa. He opened this facility." I paused, "He served with James Barnes in the..."

"107th?"

My reaction prompted him to close the journal, "See? You think I'm crazy."

"No, I don't." I leaned back against the counter. "My grandpa kept journals while he was in the army. I'll dig them up; maybe something in there will help you."

I finished up the dishes and told James I would meet him in the courtyard in an hour. I went home to shower then began to search for the journals. Growing up, Grandpa and I had shared a two bedroom apartment; once I turned 18, I moved into the apartment across the hall. I hadn't gone into Grandpas room since he died. I swallowed my nerves and walked inside. The only difference was a layer of dust on the furniture; everything had been untouched.

I found the journals tucked away in a box on his bookshelf. I flipped through one; seeing his handwriting made my eyes swell with tears. I sat there for a moment, to compose myself. The past couple years have taught me that anything is possible: a super soldier was brought back from the dead, aliens do exist, and a government organization let a communist group grow within it without anyone blinking an eye. A billionaire who was kidnapped came back to become a superhero. A Norse God fell from the sky. Could an 80 year old veteran who looked no more than 26 be staying in the group home? I hoped the answer was in one of these journals.


	6. Chapter 6

I've known Sam Wilson for almost ten years. He came to the group home after he left active duty following the death of his wing-man. He stayed for about a year; Grandpa helped him get the job at the VA.

I was working at the home one morning over summer break from high school, making breakfast. I had recently been dumped and was sulking over a bowl of scrambled eggs. A noise come from the living room. It was 5 AM, not uncommon for a couple of the residents to be awake. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Sam, dressed in an Air Force shirt and running shorts, came into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Hey Dani."

I nodded in his direction. I was still at that point of heartbreak when I cried on command, as most teenagers experienced. Sam had the unfortunate experience of walking into the courtyard after the break-up.

"You, uh, doing ok?" he asked hesitantly.

"I guess."

He took a swig from the bottle.

"Get your gym shoes on."

"What?"

"You're a track runner, right?"

I nodded.

"You need to get out of your head. C'mon."

Sam was a morning person.

A talkative morning person.

On our way to the Metro, he talked about growing up in Harlem, how he joined the Air Force right out of high school, instead of becoming a minister, like his father. He talked about his wing-man Riley, avoiding the topic of his untimely death. By the time we reached our stop, I had learned more about Sam that I had about all the residents combined. I followed him to the National Mall; I had never been there when it wasn't overrun by tourists.

"C'mon."

He started to run. I hurried after him. We ran to the Jefferson Memorial, all the way to the Lincoln, and back. It was a quiet run, peaceful. I didn't think about my broken heart once. After an hour or so, we collapsed in the shade beside the reflecting pond.

"That was...thank you."

"I do this every morning, you're more than welcome to join me."

So, I did. Nearly every morning since then, we ran. When he moved out of the group home and into his apartment, he met me at the top of the metro station stop. The day my grandpa died, we ran for three hours. I just collapsed and cried at some point. Sam sat with me until I could control myself again, and then we just sat there, watching the crowds.

Sam had become a little more preoccupied recently, with what he wouldn't say. Some mornings, I would be on my own, others he would catch up with me. It wasn't until he stopped by unexpectedly one night that he revealed what he had been up to.

"Do you have _any_ idea who that is?!"

Sam had been talking to one of the residents when he spotted Bucky in the courtyard. He grabbed my arm, pulled me into the office and slammed the door. In the last week, Bucky, as he asked to be called, shared with me what he found in my grandpas journals. Their regent had been captured after a losing battle. Grandpa described how Bucky has been dragged away by enemy soldiers; it wasn't until Captain America showed up that they saw him again. Bucky couldn't remember what transpired during that time.

"Actually-"

"That's the Winter Soldier, Dani! HYDRAs number one assassin is sitting in the flower garden. Do you realize how dangerous that guy is, what he's even capable of?"

"He's also a tortured, brainwashed, World War 2 veteran suffering from PTSD."

I watched Sam internally battle with what he would say next.

"Dani, that was over 70 years ago."

I folded my arms, "Bucky hasn't hurt anyone while he's been here."

"Bucky, huh?"

"Sam, c'mon!"

"Dude ripped the steering wheel right out of my hands, _while_ I was driving! Captain America and I have been searching for him for months."

"He doesn't want to be found. He wants to try and regain some sense of himself. Can't you just deter the Captain a little bit?"

"You want me to lie to Captain America?"

"Technically, it's not lying. Just...keeping him off his trail."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath.

"Cap is occupied with another mission, so I _guess, _for a _little_ longer…"

I couldn't help but hug him.

"BUT, if people turn up missing, or the house catches on fire…"

"Thank you Sam."


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky had been a resident of the home for five months, and settled in well. He would linger around the kitchen whenever I happened to be there, and help out when needed. My afternoons were usually spent preparing for dinner; feeding an average of ten full grown men took a lot of food.

It was a cool fall day, the windows were open and a breeze blew through the house. I was elbow deep in ground meat, humming to the song on the radio. I sensed someone staring at me; I looked up to find Bucky leaning in the doorway.

"What are you making?"

"Mashed potatoes, meatloaf...want to help?"

"Sure."

He pulled a stool over to the kitchen island and sat down. I placed a bowl of potatoes in front of him to peel.

"My mom always made me do this."

This was the first time he had mentioned his previous life; I wasn't entirely sure if it was a good thing or not.

"What was she like?"

Bucky smiled at the potato in his hand. "She was small but mighty, kinda like you. She worked in a factory, had to after Dad died with four kids to take care of. She hated that I enlisted. The first war took her husband, she didn't want the second one to take her son." He paused, looking down at his metal hand. "Well, we know how that turned out."

"My grandpa would tell me stories about the war," I said, "He talked about you, a lot actually."

"Dum Dum liked to give me a hard time. He was a good man, though. He was always willing to put his life on the line."

"I never understood that nickname."

Bucky shrugged, "There was a lot of downtime in the barracks." He paused, his face darkening. "Bet he'd be disappointed how I turned out."

Instinctively, I placed my hand on top of his, which he stared at.

"That wasn't your fault, Bucky." I sighed, "Those potatoes aren't going to cut themselves."

X_X_X

That night, I woke up to the vibrating of my phone on the bedside table. I blinked at the screen, _Cop Martin_ displayed across it.

"Hello?"

"Hi Dani. Um, I found a young guy wandering around the VFW, wanted to make sure he wasn't one of yours before I brought him in."

My stomach churned, "Long dark hair, blue eyes...metal arm?"

"Yup, that's him."

I sat up, suddenly wide awake. I slid on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, nearly tripping over my feet to run out the door.

"Thanks Martin, I'll be right there."

X_X_X

I saw Martin's cop car parked near the back entrance of the VFW, the streetlight shone down on Bucky. He was sitting on the curb, hugging his legs into his chest. I waved at Martin, who nodded back.

"Bucky?"

He looked up at me as I walked up to him, "Dani?" He asked as though he wasn't sure.

"Hey," I said, sitting next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?"

"I don't know...I was in bed, then...I was here." He paused. "Did I hurt anyone?"

"No!" I quickly reassured him. At least, there didn't appear to be a trail of destruction.

"Thank God," he said, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Everything ok?" Martin called from the window of the car.

"We're good."

Martin nodded and backed up and drove away.

I turned to Bucky, "Do you remember anything before Martin found you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

He didn't make eye contact with me, just focused on the ground in front of him. I studied his face. I don't know if he was embarrassed or trying to process the incident. It didn't matter to me; I was just glad he was safe.

"Do you remember anything before Martin found you?"

"I had a bad dream, I think. I don't...I just remember...I had to get out."

His breath quickened, eyes darting, like he was starting to have a panic attack. I jumped, grabbing his shoulders.

"Whoa, Bucky-breathe, ok?"

He took a couple slow breaths, trying to compose himself. He leaned forward, placing his head on my chest. I was a little taken aback. He had never closed that much space between us, let alone touched me. I began to run my hand through his hand, attempting to soothe him.

We were like that for awhile. I gave Bucky all the time he needed; eventually he pulled back.

"I feel really stup-"

"Don't you dare, James Barnes."

"Can we go home?" he said with a final deep breath.

I nodded; he stood first, extending his hand to pull me to my feet. We walked the couple blocks back in silence. Once inside, I could feel John's eye on the back of my head as he leaned out of the office window. I wasn't entirely in the mood to recount what had just happened. Bucky stopped outside his room, turning to face me.

"Thank for everything tonight. I don't deserve your kindness, but I appreciate it."

"I'm here anytime you need to talk. Good night, Bucky."


End file.
